The Red Wyvern by Katharine Kerr
“These cursed dreams!” he snapped. “I don’t mind admitting that I’m half-afraid to sleep at night. You wouldn’t have a talisman, would you, to drive them away?”
“Nothing so simple. Tell me about them.”
“I’ve been thinking a good bit about it. They have a sameness to them. I’ll be walking somewhere I know well, this dun, say, or the town, or even Aberwyn. And all of a sudden, the air around me will turn thick, like, and a bluish color, like looking into deep water, and there the bitch will be, stark naked and taunting me. She keeps saying she’ll have my head on a pike one fine day and other little pleasantries.”
Dallandra swore at hearing her worst fear confirmed.
“You think it’s dweomer, don’t you?” He was grinning the twisted smile.
“I do. Whatever you do, don’t go chasing after her. She’s trying to draw your soul out of your body, you see.”
“And what then?”
“I don’t know. If she were a master of the dark dweomer, she’d be able to kill you, but she’s nothing of the sort. A poor little beginner, more like, who knows a few tricks and naught more.”
“A few tricks? Ye gods! She can turn herself into a blasted bird and fly, she can visit men in their dreams, and you call that tricks?”
“I do, because I’ve seen just enough of her to know that she doesn’t understand how she does it. Her power is all Alshandra’s doing, or it was. Now it’s Evandar’s wretched brother who’s causing all the trouble.”
Rhodry laughed, a high-pitched chortle that made her wince.
“Tricks,” he said again. “Well, if that’s all they are, you wouldn’t happen to have a few you could teach me, would you?”
“I don’t, but I’ve got a few of my own. I’ll scribe wards around you every night before you go to sleep.”
“Not so easy with me sleeping out in the barracks.”
“What? Is that where the chamberlain’s put you? After all you did this summer in the gwerbret’s service?”
“A silver dagger’s welcome is a short one and his honor shorter still.”
“That’s ridiculous! I’ll speak with the chamberlain for you.” Dallandra hesitated, glancing around. “Here, if you don’t mind a bit of gossip, there’s room enough in this chamber for both of us.”
“And why would a silver dagger mind gossip?” His smile had changed to something open and soft. “It’s your woman’s honor that’s at stake. But if there’s no one up here to know—”
“No one wants to live next to a sorcerer. Which has its uses. No one’s going to argue with me either, come to think of it. Why don’t you just fetch your gear and suchlike?”
“I’ll find young Jahdo and have him do it. He’s been earning his keep as my page.”
“It’s good of you to take the lad on like that.”
“Someone had to.” Rhodry stood up with a shrug. “He’s no trouble. I’m teaching him to read.”
“I keep forgetting you know how.”
“It comes as a surprise to most people, truly. But Jill made him a promise before she was killed, that she’d teach him, and so, well, I’ve taken on that promise with her other one, that she’d get him home again in the spring.”
Later that afternoon, with the chamberlain spoken to and Jahdo found, Rhodry’s gear got moved into her chamber. With the job done, Jahdo himself, a skinny dark-haired lad, brought Dallandra a message.
“My lady, the Princess Carra did ask me to come fetch you, if it be that you can come.”
“Is somewhat wrong?”
“It be the child, my lady, little Elessi.”
“Oh ye gods! Is she ill?”
“I know not. The princess, though, she be sore troubled.”
Dallandra found Carra—Princess Carramaena of the Westlands, to give her proper title—in the women’s hall, where she was sitting close to the hearth with her baby in her arms. Out in the center of the half-round room, Lady Ocradda, the gwerbret’s wife and the mistress of Dun Cengarn, sat with her serving women around a wooden frame and stitched on a vast embroidery in the elven style, all looping vines and flowers. The women glanced at Dallandra, then devoted themselves to their work as assiduously as if they feared the evil eye. Carra, however, greeted her with a smile. She was a pretty lass, with blond hair and big blue eyes that dominated her heart-shaped face, and young—seventeen winters as close as she could remember.
“Dalla, I’m so glad you’ve come, but truly, the trouble seems to be past, now.”
“Indeed?” Dallandra found a small stool and sat upon it near the fire. “Suppose you tell me about it anyway.”
“Well, it’s the wraps. She hates to be wrapped, and it’s so drafty and chill now, but she screams and fights and flings her hands around when I try to wrap her in a blanket. She won’t have the swaddling bands at all, of course.”
At the mention of swaddling, Lady Ocradda looked up and shot a sour glance at the princess’s back. The women of the dun had lost that battle early in the baby’s life. At the moment Elessario was lying cradled in a blanket in Carra’s arms and sound asleep, wearing naught but her diapers and a little shirt made of old linen, soft and frayed.
“Most babies like to be warm,” Dallandra said.
“By the fire like this she’s fine. But when I put her down in my bed, it’s so cold without the wraps, but she screams if I put them round her.”
“It’s odd of her, truly, but no doubt she’ll get used to them in time.”
“I hope so.” Carra looked at her daughter with some doubt. “She’s awfully strong-willed, and here she was born just a month ago. You know, it seems so odd, remembering when she was born. It seems like she’s been here forever.”
“You seem much happier for it.”
Carra laughed and looked up, grinning.
“I am, truly. You know, it was the strangest thing, and I feel like such an utter dolt now, but all the time I was carrying her, I was sure I was going to die in childbed. When I look back, ye gods, I was such a simpering dolt, always weeping, always sick, always carrying on over this and that.”
“Well, my dear child,” Ocradda joined in. “Being heavy with child takes some women that way. No need to berate yourself.”
“But it was all because I was so afraid,” Carra said with a shake of her head. “That’s what I realized, just the other day. I was just as sure as sure that I was going to die, and it colored everything. I’d wake up in the morning and look at the sunlight, and I’d wonder how many more days I’d live to see.”
“No doubt you were frightened as a child,” Ocradda said. “Too many old women and midwives tell horrible tales about childbirth where young girls can hear them. I’ve known many a lass to be scared out of her wits.”
“I suppose so.” Carra considered for a moment. “But it was absolutely awful, feeling that way.”
“No doubt,” Dallandra said. “And I’m glad it’s past.”
Carra shuddered, then began to tell her, in great detail, how much Elessi was nursing. Although she listened, Dallandra was thinking more about Carra’s fear. Had she died in childbed to end her last life, perhaps? Such a thing might well carry over as an irrational fear—not, of course, that Carra’s fear lacked basis. Human women did die in childbirth often enough. A reincarnating soul carried very little from life to life, but terror, like obsessive love, had a way of being remembered. As, of course, did a talent for the dweomer—she found herself wondering about the Raven Woman. It was possible that this mysterious shapechanger was remembering, dimly and imperfectly, magical training from her last life.
Later that night Dallandra learned more about her enemy. She was getting ready for bed when she heard a tap at her chamber door. Before she could call out a query, Evandar walked in, or more precisely, he walked through the shut and barred door and oozed into the room like a ghost. Dallandra yelped.
“I wish you wouldn’t do things like that!” she snapped. “You give me such a turn!”
“My apologies
He took her into his arms and kissed her. His skin, the touch of his lips and hands, felt oddly cool and smooth, as if he were made of silk rather than flesh.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” Dallandra said. “I wish you could stay a while.”
“The dun’s too full of iron, weapons and nails both, or I’d spend the night with you. When all this trouble is done, my love, we’ll go back to my country, you and I.” He paused to kiss her. “And we’ll share our love again.”
“That will be splendid.” With a sigh she let go of him. “From now on, can’t we meet in the Gatelands? I’d rather spare you pain if I could.”
“My thanks, and the meadows of sleep will do us well enough for ordinary news. But something a bit more urgent brings me here tonight.” He paused for effect. “I’ve tracked down the Raven Woman. She’s sheltering in Cerr Cawnen.”
“Cerr Cawnen? Jahdo’s city?”
“The very one. I found her when I was hunting my brother.”
“Shaetano?”
“The very one, and still working mischief. He’s escaped me, but I think I know who let him out of the prison I made for him.”
“The Raven Woman.” Dallandra heard her own voice sag in sudden weariness.
“And once again, the very one, my love. Her name, by the by, is Raena. I did find that tidbit for you. Now, you told me that you think her little skilled in dweomer, and I agree. Her magic’s like one of those rain spouts that men make to carry water, and she’s naught but the barrel underneath.”
“And Shaetano’s willing to be the downpour, is he?”
“Just that. No doubt he’s flattered to be worshipped as if he were one of the gods. He’ll lend her power to make mischief, anyway, mischief being his own true calling. So I thought I’d tell you where I was bound. After all, you have good reason to hate him yourself.”
“Hate him? I don’t, truly.”
“What? Why not? After the way he treated you—stealing you away, binding you, holding you up to mockery in that wretched wooden cage—how can you not hate him?”
He asked in all seriousness, and she considered with the seriousness that he deserved in his answer.
“Well, he frightens me, and when I think of the things he did, I’m angry still, but it’s not the same as hate. Does he truly understand the evil he works, and why it’s an evil thing?”
“I’ve no idea, and I care even less. He’s crossed me and injured you, and that’s enough for me.”
“And so you’ll be hunting him? If you can find him and stop him, then Raena’s dweomer should dry up and quickly, too.”
“Good. Let us hope. I’ll find him, sooner or later, never you fear, but I do have a few other errands to run as well.” Evandar turned away and smiled, an oddly sly quirk of his mouth. “I have a scheme afoot, you see.”
“Oh ye gods, what now? Evandar, you know I love you, but those schemes of yours! They always get out of hand, they always hurt people, and I wish—”
“Hush!” He held up one hand flat for silence. “I’ve been thinking. Have I not learned from you, my love, about thinking and the passing of Time? Well, when Time passes, and my people are born into the world of flesh and death, just as our Elessi’s been born, won’t they need a place to go?”
“A what?”
“A place of their own, and I shall say no more about it.” He turned back and grinned. “It’s a surprise and a riddle, and here’s a clue: when the moon rises again you’ll see.”
Dallandra hesitated on the edge of snarling at him. Once he defined something as a riddle, he would never tell the answer, no matter how much she prodded or swore or wheedled.
“Oh very well,” she said with a sigh. “And how soon will this moon of yours rise?”
“I have no idea. I’ve been weaving this scheme for a long time, truly, ever since I asked the man named Maddyn for his rose ring—hundreds of your years ago now, isn’t it?”
“It is. Wait—that’s the ring Rhodry used to have, the one with the dragon’s name graved on it.”
“It is, but I’ll speak no more about it now.” Evandar paused for a lazy grin; he knew full well how his riddles irritated her. “But to the matter at hand, my love, Shaetano’s clever, so that will take this strange thing, Time, as well. He’ll hide from me, but sooner or later, he’ll have to appear to his worshipper over in Cerr Cawnen. When he does, I’ll be close by.” All at once he tossed his head in a spasm of pain. “Iron! Wretched demon-spawn metal!”
Evandar took one step toward the window and disappeared. She saw nothing, not a fading or a trembling of him—one moment he was there; the next he was not. Dallandra shuddered once, but only once. She’d got used to him and his ways, over the years they’d been lovers, hundreds of years, in fact, as men reckon time.
The tiny room smelled of ancient smoke and recent dust. The fetid air hung cold and close around the two people standing, bundled in cloaks, with their backs to the wide crack between stones that served as its door.
“It be best not to light a candle or suchlike in here,” Verrarc whispered. “Not enough air.”
“There’s no need on us for one,” Raena said. “Watch, my love. See what I did learn, this past year or two.”
He could hear her draw a deep breath; then she began to chant the same few words—he thought they might be Gel da’Thae—over and over. Up at the corner of the web ceiling a silver light gleamed, then spread and brightened. Spiders dashed from her dweomer.
“Ye gods,” Verrarc whispered.
“Gods, indeed, my love. This be a gift from the gods I do serve, the true gods.” Raena turned, glancing around the room. “What place be this? It must be old, truly old.”
“No one knows. When I was a boy, I did find all the secret places of Citadel. Some few I asked the elders about, but most, like this one, I did keep for my own.”
She nodded, looking round her. Near the ceiling and all around the room ran a line of triangles and circles, crudely carved into the stone. Verrarc had never seen it so clearly; when he had hidden in this half-buried chamber as a child, the only light had been a dim glow from the entrance.
“I feel despair here,” Raena spoke abruptly. “And old fear.”
“Do you? We’d best be about our business. I don’t want anyone wondering where we might be and come looking for us. What was this thing you were going to show me? Or is it the light?”
“Not just the light. Here.”
When she knelt on the dirty floor, he joined her. She flung both hands into the air and began a chant of different words, vibrated from deep in her throat and spat out like a challenge. In answer the silver light shrank and collected itself into a glowing sphere, about the size of an armload of hay, that hung above and before them. When Raena tossed her head, the hood of her cloak fell back. Her eyes were shut, sweat oozed down her face, and her long black hair seemed to gleam and flutter in the unnatural light. Verrarc felt himself turn cold as the sphere of light began to stretch itself into a long cylinder.
Within the silvery pillar something—no, someone—was forming. At first it seemed only a trick of the light, a shape like a drift of smoke caught in a sunbeam, but gradually it solidified and turned mostly human. When the figure stepped free of the silver pillar, Verrarc could see that there was more than a touch of the fox about him. Red fur tufted his ears and ran in a brushy roach from his low forehead back over his skull and down his neck. Under their red-tufted brows, his eyes gleamed black and bright. Each of his fingers ended in a sharp black claw.
“I am the Lord of Havoc, ruler of the powers of strife and tumult.” His voice boomed and echoed so loudly that Verrarc feared someone in the town above would be hearing him. “Why have you summoned me, O my priestess?”
“To beg my lord’s favor,” Raena whispered. “I have brought another who would worship thee.”
“Then you have summoned well, little one. I sha
All at once Lord Havoc hesitated, staring at something behind his two worshippers. When Verrarc twisted around to look, he saw nothing, but Havoc yelped. He flung himself backward into the pillar and disappeared, leaving behind him the stink of fox. The light that formed the pillar began to break up. Although Raena chanted to drive it back, the light stubbornly spread out and clung to the walls, as faded and torn as an old curtain. With a gasp for breath she fell silent.
“Rae, forgive me,” Verrarc said. “But a doubt lies upon me that he be any sort of god at all. A fox spirit, more like, such as do live in the woods.”
“Animal spirits are weak little things!” She turned on him with a snarl. “How could he nourish my dweomer if he were some woodland imp? I tell you, I’ve seen him do great things, Verro, truly great, and he does shower favor upon me.”
Verrarc got up, dusting off the heavy cloth wrappings round his legs.
“You saw the light, didn’t you?” Raena snapped.
“I did.” He straightened up, then gave her his hand and helped her clamber to her feet. “Here! You do be as pale as he was!”
She very nearly collapsed into his arms. He struggled with the folds of his cloak and hers, finally got a supporting arm around her, and helped her stand. All around them the silver light was fading.
“It be needful to get you back to the house,” Verrarc said.
He squeezed out of the room first to the dark tunnel beyond, then helped her through. The tunnel twisted and wound, the air grew fresher and colder, and about thirty feet along they came to its entrance, an opening in a stone wall. Beyond they could see snow and tumbled blocks of stone overgrown with leafless shrubs. Verrarc helped her climb out, then scrabbled after to the wan light of a dying day.
They were standing on the peak of Citadel, the sharp hill island that rose in the center of Loc Vaed and the town of Cerr Cawnen. Between the trees that grew among and around the ruins of the old building, brought down in an earthquake centuries ago, Verrarc could see down the steep slope of the island, where public buildings and the houses of the few wealthy families clung to the rocks and the twisting streets. The blue-green lake itself, fed by volcanic springs, lay misted with steam in the icy air. Beyond, at the lake’s edge, the town proper sprawled in the shallows—houses and shops built on pilings and crannogs in a welter of roofs and little boats. Beyond them, marking out the boundary of Cerr Cawnen, stood a circle of stone walls, built around timber supports to make them sway, not shatter, in the earth tremors that struck the town now and again.